Although Lisbeth had borne him a son, the charge levelled against him in his wife's petition for divorce still filled him with blind fury each time that he thought of it.

And all at once he shuddered violently, as if an icy blast had darted through his frame.

Then, turning the conversation, he added: "It's not at all warm this evening.

This is the dangerous hour of the Roman climate, the twilight hour when it's easy to catch a terrible fever if one isn't prudent.

Here, pull the rug over your legs, wrap it round you as carefully as you can." Then, as they drew near the Porta Furba, silence again fell, more profound, like the slumber which was invincibly spreading over the Campagna, now steeped in night.